Title: "Sex and Candy"
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Content: M/F, starring Giles and Jenny (?), some NC
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: "Passion"
WARNING:
This story contains suggestive language and scenes of sexual activity that may not be suitable for younger or more sensitive readers. I advise you to use discretion in choosing whether to read this story.
DISCLAIMER:
The characters in this story belong to Joss Whedon and the good folks over at "Mutant Enemy" Productions, not to me. I am merely borrowing them for the entertainment of myself and my online friends. No copyright infringement is intended, and no monetary compensation is desired for my use of these characters.
(C) March 25, 1998, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, jfc@freeshell.org. Please send all comments and constructive criticism to this address.
_______________
SEX AND CANDY
Rupert Giles had a stomachache. He was sitting in a smoky coffee shop, working on his fourth cup, and the acid wasn't helping the twinges that might signal the onset of an ulcer. The stress of his life as a Watcher had been getting to him even before the evening he had bounded up the stairs to find his darling Jenny cold and lifeless in his own bed. His fury at his initial discovery had dissipated somewhat, but some nights he still awoke mere hours after his head had hit the pillow with tears stinging his eyes and murky, frightening dreams fading in his memory. Home was no longer his comforting private sanctuary.
The library felt a little safer, with the random student seeking research information, and the noisy gatherings of the Slayerettes, with their casual good humor and boundless energy. The rest of the time the stacks of faceless books almost seemed to taunt him, hiding the information that would help him and Buffy conquer the evil Angelus as if they were playing keep-away.
When no place offered any solace, Giles had taken to drowning his sorrows in coffee at a tiny boite huddled on a street far out of sight of the shops selling trademark brews in logo-adorned cups. This establishment had once attracted students from Sunnydale High and the college across town, but its clientele had diminished to a few middle-aged men in tweed jackets smoking skinny brown cigarettes who either never glanced up from their newspapers or looked him over just a little too desperately. Here he felt that he could hide away from the monsters and the memories and just blend into the faded second-hand furniture.
This evening, he'd been pretty successful at keeping the demons at bay for a couple of hours, but found himself massaging his gut gently over his suede vest, wondering if he still had any antacid tablets tucked in his pocket.
A peculiar, sweet aroma was beginning to waft just into his circle of perception, which of necessity had shrunk to an extremely small size. Slowly he recognized it as the smoke from a clove cigarette, which he'd not smelled (or, truth be told, tasted) since his own mad youth. The familiar scent made him glance up in curiosity to locate its source.
He sat in a tightly rounded grouping of sofas and easy chairs. Directly across from him sat a female figure who bore a startling contrast to the typical denizens of the cafe. She was dressed entirely in black, young, thin, and, as he could only slightly detect in the dim light, strikingly pretty. Her hair was dark, cropped at chin length, her skin lustrous as alabaster, and her features delicate with almost sharp edges. She sprawled across an armchair, one booted foot swinging in mid-air. She nursed her cup of coffee, holding her cigarette in the same hand. With her other hand, she idly turned pages in a magazine, reaching intermittently for a candy from a bag on the small table beside her chair. He realized he had been staring at her when she suddenly looked up and caught his eye. His heart nearly jumped to his throat the instant he saw her eyes, which were almond-shaped and nearly as impenetrably black as her short suede skirt: Jenny's eyes.
But Jenny was dead, he told himself: He'd found her, seen paramedics carry her inert body out of his house, been questioned by the police about her murder, and attended her funeral. But here was a woman who could have been her twin sister, looking him fixedly in the eye with a not-quite smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She set her coffee cup on the table and took a long, slow drag on the cigarette, deliberately blowing the smoke in his direction. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, and realized gradually that he could see up her skirt, which may have also been intentional. His eyes followed one long dark-stockinged leg up into its shadows, when he slowly became aware that her nylons were split at her crotch, and that he was looking directly at her vulva.
At that instant she spoke. "Horehound drop?" she asked.
He blinked, tearing his gaze away from her privates and concentrating his attentions back on her face. "What?" he asked.
"Horehound drop," she answered, popping another candy into her mouth and holding the bag out to him at arm's length.
He shook himself and straightened up on his sofa. "No," he was finally able to croak, "no, thank you."
"You sure you don't want some?" she asked in tones that sounded remarkably like Jenny's as she rolled the sweet around on her tongue.
"I'm sure," he replied brusquely. He suddenly felt the effects of the night's fluid intake, and decided that he had best visit the loo. Standing up and striding past her chair, he muttered, "Excuse me." He strode across the cafe in search of the men's room.
In a moment, he was standing at the urinal, squinting to read a scrawl of graffiti scratched into the black paint on the wall before him under the glaring fluorescent light. He was distracted enough not to notice that someone had entered and taken up a position next to him.
"Nice equipment," said a female voice, and he turned his head to find the woman in black positioned at his side, taking a critical assessment of his cock. More angry than embarrassed, he finished up and attempted to zip his fly. He was prevented in this by the woman's hand grasping the open fabric of his trousers at the base of the zipper and his hand, by which she drew him into the nearest stall, locking the door behind him with her other hand.
He was about to protest, but she brought her mouth to his and kissed him fiercely. As her tongue plunged between his lips, he could taste the flavors of her sugared, licorice-like candies and the lingering clove smoke. She gripped his hair with one hand, and with the other she fondled his penis and balls, making him hard in spite of himself. Their mouths disentangled for a moment, whereupon he whispered, "Are you Jenny?"
"Shut up, English," she barked, silencing him with a kiss.
Rupert's brain struggled to make sense of the situation with the small amount of blood that was left anywhere near his head. His last arguments against this behavior dissolved under the undeniable realization that he was almost painfully horny. Whether this was his lost beloved or not, all that mattered at the moment was fulfilling his aching need for sexual release.
When her tongue ended its seeming pursuit of his tonsils and broke away to lap at his throat, he groaned, "Not here."
She stood up straight and looked him in the eye. "Where, then?"
Without thinking, he blurted, "Come home with me." He hastily fastened his trousers, opened the stall door, and, checking that no one else had entered the washroom, led her out into the main room of the coffee shop. He dug in his pocket for his car keys as she spun past her chair to retrieve her leather jacket and the horehound candy. She flipped a large coin which Rupert recognized as the brass and silver-colored Canadian two-dollar piece into the hands of the green-haired cashier and took Rupert's arm, leading him out onto the street.
He struggled to unlock the car door as she sensuously wound her body around his from behind, pressing his ass into her stomach as she pawed at the front of his pants. The door was finally open, they were inside, and he started up the rusty Citroen with a backfire and a rumble, spinning its wheels a little as they sped away into the night.
As he drove, the woman tousled his hair and licked at his ear. He was glad that traffic was light, because she chose that moment to rub her hand over his lap, outlining his engorged organ against the corduroy with the tips of her fingers. Rather than lose control of the car, he pulled it over to the side between streetlights. While he turned off the car, he noticed that he had stopped near the cemetery, and he prayed silently that no vamps were roving nearby tonight and, moreover, that Buffy would not spot his car there while she was on patrol and come by to make conversation.
He sat back a bit, and his lovely tormentor kissed him firmly. His tongue began matching the darting of hers, and he helped her undo his belt and lower his trousers and briefs. She began stroking his member as soon as it sprang free from its bindings, then bent (as best she could in the tiny car) and took it in her mouth. He closed his eyes and succumbed to the heat of her tongue and lips running the length of his manhood as she sucked and licked him closer and closer to climax. The only sounds he could hear were her slurping and his own pulse pounding in his ears, but he moaned deeply as he came explosively into her mouth. She swallowed his juice greedily, then sat up and kissed him again, his spunk mixing with her saliva appealingly.
No words were exchanged between them as he adjusted his clothes, restarted the car, and drove back to his house. He unlocked the front door, whereupon she pounced eagerly into his arms and smothered any invitations he might have made with another deep kiss. He staggered backwards a step into the foyer, then fumbled to relock the door when they were inside.
She gave the room a cursory once-over, and not spying a bed, marched towards the staircase, dragging him with her by the wrist. He struggled out of his shoes with his free hand and stumbled up the steps behind her. Taking advantage of his longer stride, he caught up to her at the landing and leaned her against the wall, where he crushed her mouth in a ferocious kiss and yanked up her sweater to knead her full breasts. As their lips separated, he held her there a moment and looked deeply into her eyes. "Who are you?" he asked. "I have to know!"
She smirked and narrowed her eyes. "No," she answered. "You don't." With that, she broke free of his grasp and ran up the remaining stairs and into his bedroom. He followed closely, stripping off his jacket and vest and dropping them where he was. He hesitated in the doorway, where he could see her sitting on the edge of the bed with her knees splayed wide. She shrugged off her leather jacket and left it on the floor, then lifted the hem of her skirt up to her waist, revealing her dark pink center edged in the black lace of her crotchless tights.
Rupert approached his bed, which had not held such a ripe morsel in a long time, and pulled off his glasses and necktie. He fell to his knees before her and buried his face between her legs, inhaling deeply her fragrance of sweat, female, licorice, and cloves. She lay back as he reached inside her with his tongue to sample her unique flavor. His lips and nose brushed past the lace border and sparred with her clitoris as she gasped and moaned with pleasure.
His erection had returned to its fullness, so he eagerly climbed upon the bed when she clawed at his shoulders as if to pull him up by herself. He dropped his trousers and underpants and pushed his way into her depths so forcefully that he shoved her backwards nearly a foot across the mattress. The lace of her stockings tickled and teased the shaft of his cock, inflaming his passion even higher as he sucked at her breast so hard he nearly bit down on her nipple.
She began to wail as her orgasm engulfed her, while Rupert thrust his penis harder and harder inside her. Her muscles clenched and gripped him, and he emptied his load in a long spasm that shuddered down his spine to his tailbone.
Spent at last, he withdrew and sat back on the bed, using the back of his hand to wipe his face, which he discovered was wet with tears. The mysterious woman stretched and sat up, rifling her jacket pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. She wordlessly offered him one, which he accepted gratefully. He took a long drag and let the smoke stir memories of himself many years before, making him wonder how he had become the person he was now. They tapped their ashes into the wastebasket he kept beside the bed, Rupert finally stubbing out his end carefully so that he didn't set the rest of its contents afire. He lay back with his head on the pillow and his eyes closed and let the scent of the smoke and the memory of the warmth of their joined bodies wash over him and dissipate.
Rupert woke up, which is the only way he could tell that he had fallen asleep. Sunlight streamed around the blinds in his window, and the whine of a lawnmower crept through the walls. He reached tentatively toward the rest of the bed, but found it empty. He sat up and saw that he was alone. The remembered sensations were still so vivid that it was as if they had ended only moments before. No trace of her remained in the bed or on the floor, and he clambered downstairs to find his jacket, where his wallet still lay untouched in his pocket. The front door remained locked as he had left it, but he was the only living soul in the entire house. He even went so far as to dump out the wastebasket next to his bed, but there he found only wads of kleenex and empty envelopes. He wondered if she were so meticulous as to have taken out the ashes and butts, but the tissues were not even stained with smoky dust.
The idea that she had not been real gnawed at him unpleasantly, but he felt positive that he had not dreamed her. After all, he'd been drinking nothing more potent than coffee... The coffee shop! He gathered his discarded clothes, threw them back on, and raced out to his car.
He drove to the coffee shop and parked in front. He peered through the glass, shielding his eyes with his hands. He spotted the green-haired cashier, and dashed in the door and up to the counter.
"Have you seen her?" he implored breathlessly.
"Who?" asked the clerk, idly polishing the formica with a sponge.
"The girl I left with last night. She was all in black..."
"Girl? I don't remember any girl. You were here, but I didn't see you leave with anybody."
Rupert's mind raced to think of a clue that would stir the fool's memory. "Ah! The coin! Don't you remember the coin she tossed you as a tip? It was about as big as a casino token, like a dime with a wide brass ring around it."
The fellow looked past him blankly for a moment. "No, sorry," he replied, his glance returning to the frantic face before him. "I've never seen a coin like that. Look, can I get you anything?"
Rupert's chest felt heavy, as if his heart had fallen into his stomach. At that, his gut gave a well-known twinge as he considered having a cup of coffee. "No," he answered. "Nothing for me, thank you."
He shuffled out of the cafe, and turned to look for a nearby pharmacy. He poked into the pocket where he usually kept his antacids, but found an unfamiliar hard object. He dug it out, and could not identify the small black sphere by sight. He sniffed it curiously. Horehound candy...
THE END